This short story inspired by the Guinea Pig Club during WWII. This is a slightly different style from my other active projects. I hope you enjoy it.

Tony

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And I find myself in twisted metal contemplating my fate. What had gone wrong I asked myself. The filthy air filled my lungs. Burned my eyes. I was still alive. The pain told me that. Would I stay that way? The question unanswered. I could feel the heat building.

My urgency rising. An acceleration of the senses. The question remained unanswered. The heat rising, prelude to all consuming hellfire. A sight that is known to me. To all of us, friends and foes alike.

I recall the reason for that day. The same reason for many days. Bold, daring and necessary days. Unlike any other in my lifetime, and any lifetime perhaps. The scale and the terror against my Island unmatched.

The sounds of salvation seem not near enough. My fate looming.

I try to move. Stifled by the twisted metal. And again with all my being. This tomb holding me tight like a lion holding its prey. And the metal was like a lion in the air. Unafraid and deadly. But so were they.

Resigned, I think back. Was it only a year ago? A lifetime ago. I was with Elizabeth in the country just last summer. Sweet Elizabeth. Her eyes, her hair, her touch. Her touch transformed me to a man that summer, awkward unsure explosive. Sweet Elizabeth.

We were young innocent creatures protected from the realities of the world. I had designs to ask for Elizabethís hand when I finished University. A lifetime ago.

We were in love. Young love. Everything changed when the Hun set forward his dark designs on the world. Innocence destroyed. Promises made not kept. Not intended to be kept. Then, like many others, I made a promise. I promised to defend our Island and defend Elizabeth, sweet Elizabeth, to the death I told her. Prophetic.

The sirens grew louder as did the heat. I could not feel my legs, the smell of my burning flesh rising. A sweet sickening smell. It filled my head. My consciousness. Again I struggled. Pulling, clawing. Hopeless.

And again! My sweet Elizabeth. The vision of you that summer so long ago now. So far away. I will fight for you I told her that last day. Her tears pulled at my heart. She knew then. We all knew.

Movement. The sirens louder now. Voices. I fight against the heat. The searing heat coming to consume me. I fight against my flesh. Elizabeth help me I plead.

A dark figure standing above. Was it Death come to claim me? I was fading. Losing against the darkness. Losing my fight for Elizabeth.

I was pulled, twisted. The pain unbearable. The heat. The darkness.

I woke. Unsure of time. The pain remained. The heat had vanished.

My vision returned. Obstructed. Men in beds.

I was alive.

She spoke to me. An angel in white. Tears welled. Elizabeth. I was alive! Did she know?

I tried to ask, unable. I tried to move, the same. The nurse calmed me. Patience she instructed kindly.

She pointed to a man across the way. Body bandaged. His wounds were profound. It was he who pulled me from the fire she said. Saved me from cremation in the cockpit of my Spitfire.

More tears. Overwhelmed. She comforted me until sleep arrived.

Time passed. It requires time. The body, such a fragile vessel for the soul.

I came to know the man across the way. My savior. I was moments from a fiery demise had it not been for his bravery. His humanity. He was not an extraordinary man, yet he performed an extraordinary act. His humility unwarranted revealed his character.

I was among others too. Brave men. My disfigured brothers, emotionally and physically. My Elizabeth. Sweet Elizabeth. What will she see when her eyes once again gaze upon me. A man? A monster? I feared her rejection more than the fire that took my face and limbs. Sweet Elizabeth you deserve a complete man.

My brothers shared the pain. We endured the treatments, the experiments. The fear and sadness. We were bound by fire and pain. Trying to repair our lives as the doctors tried to repair our bodies.

The nurses shared the pain. They endured with us. My savior found love and was renewed. She treated his body and repaired his soul. On the other side of the suffering was love and hope. What was on the other side of my suffering?

I received a missive from Elizabeth. Relieved and worried she reaffirmed her love. She doesnít know what Iíve become. She doesnít know the pain I feel.

Again to the table. My face untethered from my body. Like the Phoenix, destroyed in fire then reborn. I was grateful. My brothers before me cutting the path. A macabre evolution. I am on the path for those who will follow.

Darkness and pain. The struggle for hope. Sweet Elizabeth soon we shall see. Monster or man. Who will stand before you. Who will you see.

More join our club as the war rages on. Fallen warriors fighting anew. The battle lines now the body and the mind. The fighting as fierce as the skies above. I was winning the battle of the body. The battle of the mind raging silent, uncertain.

Sweet Elizabeth the time nears. So long since Iíve seen you. Our words regular now. My hand taken to pen with effort.

I walked to the courtyard with a cane. Much of my leg remaining with the wreckage long since cleared. It was a cool and sunny day. My brothers watched from afar. Their hopes living vicariously as I walked. They knew the fear and shared in it. This knowledge gave me strength and courage. I would not let them down. I would not let myself down.

I rounded a bend leading to a shade tree. I could see her on the bench her back to me. Her lovely hair flowing in the light breeze. My heart swelled, as did my fear.

I thought back to that fateful day and all the days between. She had saved me. Her love saved me. Hope saved me. Was hope a lie?

She she heard me approach. First sitting straight. Her anticipation and her fear palpable. Closer I moved then stopped.

Elizabeth I said.

She stood and turned to me. The fear grabbed me. Took hold of my charred soul. Time froze. Am I a man or a monster?

She ran to me. Took me in her arms. Her aroma filled me. Comforted me.

We fell to the ground. She held me as tight as the wreckage had tried to hold me. Giving life rather than taking it.

We kissed. No words. Only tears. Tears of joy.

I reached into my pocket. Fear on the periphery. Held her delicate hands in what remained of mine.

With feeble fingers I slid the band on her finger. Her eyes answered the unasked question.

Hello and welcome firstly to the site, also, thank you for critiquing others' works prior to posting your own.

My first thoughts when I read this - I think you over did it on those short staggered sentences. Don't get me wrong, I use them myself, but when over-written in this format, I find it tiring, like the writer didn't know what came next, like they are searching for words. Like I said, it is a style that has uses, but there needs to be a variation of flow otherwise it just sort of tumbles about.

You mentioned this is inspired by the Guinea Pig Club. I have not read that piece, but if it is a dated publication, you might wish to adapt it to a more modern style - keeping the main gist, but smoothing the flow. One of similar format, I watched the animation rather than read the story, but Tales of the Black Freighter. They use short sentences to build tension, but also use longer run-on sentences to do the same. The balance keeps the reader's heart racing but doesn't slow down the scenes.

Just my thoughts. I like certain aspects, but those short punched sentences limited my experience.

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Lin

My urgency rising. An acceleration of the senses. The question remained unanswered. The heat rising, prelude to all consuming hellfire. A sight that is known to me. To all of us, friends and foes alike.

This paragraph doesn't make much sense to me.

And here tooI recall the reason for that day. The same reason for many days. Bold, daring and necessary days. Unlike any other in my lifetime, and any lifetime perhaps. The scale and the terror against my Island unmatched.

Why not say what you really mean instead of trying to baffle the reader. The whole of this is not good, sad to say. I cannot possibly read something that doesn't flow, it becomes very painful to the eye and the ear. Sorry but I hated it. ~A story needs to flow, readers don't need to be disrupted by unusual or experimental writing styles.

I do hope you understand and I know it's a harsh critique, but this is how you learn.

Thank you for the feedback. I was a little concerned that it had too many short sentences. It looks like I have something to do this weekend.

The Guinea Pig Club is a historical reference. The men, pilots and crew, who received experimental treatments for their burns at the Queen Victoria Hospital in England during WWII had a dark sense of humor and coined the phrase, citing it as the most exclusive club in the Kingdom. Out of necessity they pioneered many of the reconstructive and plastic surgery techniques used today. They also pioneered the treatment of PTSD as the burn victims had deep psychological scars as well.

I should have a revised version out in a few days.

Thank you.

Tony

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Artemis Quark

Aside from the overuse of short sentences without the balance of longer ones in between, I liked this piece, Tony. I felt the raw emotion, the trauma, the pain of your MC. But this is still very rough as I'm sure you already realize. I use many short sentences in the action adventure stories I write to build tension and keep the pace up. A good technique if balanced with longer sentences. ST's advice is spot on. Mix it up.

Another recurring issue that slows the story is repetition. Sometimes it works but mostly it stops the reader. Give readers credit for gluing together the story with their imagination. No need to "explain" an analogy or repeat what was said in a previous paragraph. Example: The question unanswered in the first paragraph followed by The question remained unanswered in the second paragraph. In fact, I would strike the first one, leaving a beat after the question since I could feel the heat building. provides the reader with more information and leaves the question unanswered without the author spelling it out. The reader dives into the next paragraph to find out what's happening to the MC.

There are more examples, but I think you get it so I will stop now.

BTW, scarred skin is taut, not taunt, although the healing process might taunt the patient, LOL.

I assume you're trying to create a sense of mounting panic by using short, disjointed sentences. But you overdo it. And coming to this cold, it's rather like being hit over the head repeatedly even before the setting is established. As good an excuse as any to stop reading.

I'd suggest a radical trim:

And I find myself in twisted metal contemplating my fate.Rather clunky openingWhat had gone wrong I asked myself.At this point in the story, I don't care enough about the narrator to want to peer inside his head. The filthy air filled my lungs and burned my eyes. I was still alive. The pain told me that. Would I stay that way? The question unanswered.Again clunky, and you're reflecting again. It slows the pace down to a standstill. I could feel the heat building. My urgency rising. An acceleration of the senses. The question remained unanswered. The heat rising, prelude to all consuming hellfire. A sight that is known to me. To all of us, friends and foes alike.This has become repetitive and over-melodramatic. It doesn't move the story forwards so fails to earn its keep.

I recall the reason for that day. The same reason for many days. Bold, daring and necessary days. Unlike any other in my lifetime, and any lifetime perhaps. The scale and the terror against my Island unmatched. The sounds of salvation seem not near enough. My fate looming.We're still waiting for the story to begin. But instead your narrator continues to make long-winded, barely coherent pronouncements. It's all very vague, and not particularly interesting to read.

I try to move. Stifled strange verb choice by the twisted metal. And again with all my being.What does this mean? This tomb holding me tight like a lion holding its prey. And the metal was like a lion in the air. Unafraid and deadly. But so were they.Try as I might, I can't keep reading this.

You feed us a clue - often no more than a blurred image or sensation - then you veer off-track with rather preposterous sentences that seem profound but say absolutely nothing. If you're trying to record the delirious ramblings of a dying man, you've succeeded. But without context and some suggestion of plot and character, what are we meant to make of it all? Are we meant to empathise with this guy or care what happens next?

Admittedly, the plot eventually emerges, despite your attempts to bury it under an avalanche of pathos. But most readers won't have the stamina or appetite to continue reading. It also seemed horribly rushed towards the end.

A valiant attempt, but doomed to be filed at the back of a drawer, I fear.

And I find myself in twisted metal contemplating my fate. What had gone wrong I asked myself. The filthy air filled my lungs. Burned my eyes. I was still alive. The pain told me that. Would I stay that way? The question unanswered. I could feel the heat building.

My urgency rising. An acceleration of the senses. The question remained unanswered. The heat rising, prelude to all consuming hellfire. A sight that is known to me. To all of us, friends and foes alike.

I recall the reason for that day. The same reason for many days. Bold, daring and necessary days. Unlike any other in my lifetime, and any lifetime perhaps. The scale and the terror against my Island unmatched.

The sounds of salvation seem not near enough. My fate looming.

I try to move. Stifled by the twisted metal. And again with all my being. This tomb holding me tight like a lion holding its prey. And the metal was like a lion in the air. Unafraid and deadly. But so were they.

In my opinion this is all too indirect. Too many metaphors.

Hit them straight off with the fact he is trapped in the cockpit of a burning Spitfire, or dare to be different and let it be a Hurricane. Let the readers know straight off he's on the ground. A grounded pilot is a trapped beast.

Maybe something like 'Machine-gunned on take-off, I never even got into combat with the swirling and snarling black crosses strafing our airfield.' There are times when a good sentence of tell is worth a thousand words of show. 'Fuel from the ruptured tanks surged across my legs in a burning tide, and the quick release on my harness wasn't.'

Otherwise the advice to use a mix and match of short and long sentences is good.

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When the Guinea Pigs, (McIndoe's Boys), were deemed ready to face the world they were sent to local village dances, and my Mum danced with some of them. The men were denied mirrors in the hospital, but Mum says some of them would snatch surreptitious and fearful glances at their reflections in the glass of village hall windows. Some of them quickly looked away, but others kept taking little peeks as if acknowledging they weren't quite as bad as they'd feared.

Your character could be one of those who was horrified, but dared to hope. But will his Elizabeth see the man she knew, or just the scars?

=====

But I'll stop trampling on your tale now, because we all write things differently.

Gyppo

« Last Edit: August 24, 2017, 03:52:25 PM by Gyppo »

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My website is currently having a holiday, but will return like the $6,000,000 man. Bigger, stronger, etc.

Lin

Tony, May I offer some advice? Writing is best when the author writes from the heart and says what they mean instead of trying too hard. So you really speak as you write in this way? I hope not! When I write a book I write it in the real world coming from me. I find many new writers tend to feel they have to be extremely poetic and display too many metaphors. I see this as trying too hard instead of just being you, the author. You don't have to be copying anyone else's style. Just be you.

I start with a few characters, make a list of their ages, personal descriptions and their jobs, etc. Each one from thereon will carry the story through. I don't try to copy the style of another author. What I do find is that when you have written the book, you can compare it to another author's style if you wish. I do tend to 'feel' the style of my favourite authors, they have influenced me, but all the while I remember this is my book and my story and not theirs. I have to be me in all respects.

I found all your words were not really coming from you, the author, but I felt it was transparent enough to say you are inadvertently copying the ways of another author or if not, how you think a book should be written. Just write it! Enjoy the words flowing from your head.

That was the impression I got when I read your work. On the positive side, you can write and we are here to help you improve. I am pleased that you are listening to us. That's a great start. your literary style is fine if that's really you, but it doesn't suit everyone. I always feel that when I write a story, I have to make it for everyone, not just for a small number of readers who happen to like this kind of thing.

Good luck and keep going because you have got what it takes, but for me not in this style,

Great feedback everyone. This is exactly what I am seeking. Too many friends, even the liberal arts majors, give me generalities of "great work" or "loved it". This is the raw meat feedback to help my writing improve. Well done and thank you.

I want to thank everyone for their earlier feedback. I largely scrapped the initial version and rewrote the first part maintaining the original theme.

I submit the first 546 words of the rewrite to the forum for review and comment.

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I struck the ground hard, my body jarred violently with the impact. Not sure if I made the runway, the smoke from my engine too thick to see before contact. I was shaken badly and had the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. And Bloody Hell I was angry! I didnít see Jerry before I was hit.

Coming to my senses I tried to get out of my Mk1. The frame was twisted badly and I could smell fuel. My right leg was pinched in the twisted metal. Rightly stuck firm was my assessment. Mrs Keats and the Civic Association of Enfield will be rather displeased that I had crashed The Silver Street, their prized Spitfire. Iím sure to receive a tongue lashing.

I was alarmed as fire leapt from the engine. I could hear sirens in the distance. Too far for comfort. I opened my canopy and pulled with all my might to free my leg. Nothing. I could feel the heat edging closer. The smell of fuel as strong as my growing urgency. Again I pulled with all my strength. Again, nothing.

Exhausted from the effort and the trauma I thought back to last summer. Elizabeth and I in the country. Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth, it seems so long ago now. Young then and in love. Her love and her touch transformed me into a man. After university I hoped to have her hand in marriage. It wasnít much longer, but greater matters emerged. The Hun had attacked Poland and put the world on notice. Breaking promises and instantly turning the planet into a dark and dangerous place. I responded to the Call to Arms without hesitation. I would protect our Island and Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth.

The heat grew stronger focusing me back to the moment. The sirens closer, not yet arrived. Again I tried to free my captured limb. Pulling and twisting. Flames appeared in the cockpit, menacing, intent to finish the job of the nimble 109. My senses accelerated in this mortal struggle with the grave realization of my circumstances. The pain arrived as my material defenses gave way to the flames.

The sweet sickening smell of my burning flesh filled the air. The calm and decorum with which I was raised gave way to panic and terror. I was trapped in a fiery metal tomb. The flames grew stronger and licked my face. Each breath sucking in air from a furnace. I pulled against the metal and fought against my flesh.

Movement, my leg gave way. I was consumed in flame. I felt myself floating, out of body. Was this death? Darkness took me.

I woke to pain, harsh light greeting my left eye. I panicked, my breathing labored. A white angel appeared, her soft words calmed me. I was alive she told me, be calm, I was safe. She stayed with me, comforting me until sleep arrived.

I woke again to darkness, the soft moonlight showing through large windows. Time has lost meaning, there was only pain. I suffered silently my vision clear. I could see men in beds across from me bandaged like Egyptian mummies. I fear I was much the same. What has become of me I thought as sleep once again guided me to darkness.

Good to see you taking our critiques with such grace. I also appreciate your enthusiasm, but I'm not sure it's always practical to come up with a drastic rewrite quite so soon after having the original post read and dissected. The danger is, it can come across as a knee-jerk reaction. Sometimes a piece of writing has to be allowed to settle and ferment. You seem to have taken your time over this redraft, but here and there I see signs this hasn't been given a careful enough edit.

I'll comment as I read through, with the proviso that it's just one opinion. Use or lose.

I struck the ground hard, my body jarred violently with the impact.Aren't you telling us the same thing twice here? I also imagined you hitting the ground rather than your plane.

Not sure if I made the runway, the smoke from my engine too thick to see before contact. I was shaken badly and had the metallic taste of bloodclichť in my mouth. Where else would the taste be? Maybe simplify this - 'I could taste blood'. And Bloody Hell I was angry! I didnít see Jerry before I was hit.

Coming to my senses I tried to get out of my Mk1. The frame was twisted badly shaken 'badly' and twisted 'badly' - not sure either adverb is necessary and I could smell fuel. My right leg was pinched in the twisted two 'twisted's metal. Rightly stuck firm was my assessment. Mrs Keats and the Civic Association of Enfield will be rather displeased that I had crashed The Silver Street, their prized Spitfire. Iím sure to receive a tongue lashing. The change from past tense is jarring.

I was alarmed Do we need to be told this? as fire leapt from the engine. I could hear sirens in the distance. Too far for comfort. I opened my canopy and pulled with all my might to free my leg. Nothing. I could feel the heat edging closer. The smell of fuel as strong as my growing urgency. Again I pulled with all my strength 'with all my might' and 'with all my strength' - Hmm. Again, nothing.

Exhausted from the effort and the trauma I thought back to last summer. This is hard to swallow. He's about to be barbecued and he's reminiscing about a date with his beloved. Elizabeth and I in the country. Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth, it seems so long ago now. Young then and in love. Her love and her touch transformed me into a man. After university I hoped to have her hand in marriage. It wasnít much longer, but greater matters emerged. The Hun had attacked Poland and put the world on notice.And now he has time to give us a news bulletin? Breaking promises and instantly turning the planet into a dark and dangerous place. I responded to the Call to Arms without hesitation. I would protect our Island and Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth. I appreciate you're trying to mimic the mood of the times, but this guy seems too stiff-upper-lipped to be true.

The heat grew stronger focusing me back to the moment. The sirens closer, not yet arrived. Again I tried to free my captured limb. Pulling and twisting. Flames appeared in the cockpit, menacing, intent to finishon finishing the job of the nimble 109. My senses accelerated in this mortal struggle with the grave realization of my circumstances so much melodrama. The pain arrivedI'm picturing a No. 6 bus as my material defenses gave way to the flames.

The sweet sickening smell of my burning flesh filled the air. The calm and decorum with which I was raised gave way to panic and terror. I was trapped in a fiery metal tomb. The flames grew stronger and licked my face. Each breath sucking in air from a furnace. I pulled against the metal and fought against my flesh. You over-describe everything. There's a danger you will destroy the sense of panic by stretching every event beyond reason.

Movement, my leg gave way. I was consumed in flame. I felt myself floating, out of body. Was this death? Darkness took me.

I woke to pain, harsh light greeting my left eye. I panicked, my breathing labored. A white angel appeared, her soft words calmed me. I was alive she told me, be calm, I was safe. She stayed with me, comforting me until sleep arrived.

I woke again to darkness, the soft moonlight showing through large windows. Time has lost meaning, there was only pain. I suffered silently my vision clear. I could see men in beds across from me bandaged like Egyptian mummies. I fear I was much the same. What has become of me I thought as sleep once again guided me to darkness.

You're a capable writer, but this reads like a tale of four parts.Part 1 - the smash. You lay things on thickly here, as if you don't trust the reader to figure out he's inside a burning plane.Part 2 - his reverie on Elizabeth. This is out of place and sickeningly twee. It might work better if it's blended into his delirious recovery in hospital.Part 3 - the fire. Again, you hammer home each point.Part 4 - waking in hospital. Now you're in a rush to finish the story and it shows. You're also rather too fond of embellishment. 'my material senses gave way to the flames' - i.e. fire overcame me - 'sleep once again guided me to darkness' - i.e. I fell asleep again.

There's a place for literary writing, but the reader shouldn't be aware of its presence. The author should remain invisible. But in much of this extract, I'm seeing a writer trying to show me he can craft words and phrases rather than someone who is trying to tell me a story. An entire novel written like this would be indigestible.

H3K

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Lin

I struck the ground hard, my body jarred violently with the impact. Not sure if I made the runway, the smoke from my engine too thick to see before contact. I was shaken badly and had the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. And Bloody Hell I was angry! I didnít see Jerry before I was hit.

How about: It was the impact I felt most as my body struck the ground with violent force. The blood on my lips seemed trivial against the anger inside me. Why hadn't I seen Jerry? Through the smoke, it was hard to see where I had landed. The Silver Spitfire was crushed and I pictured the Aviation Authority watching in horror at the landing.

This is just an alternative way of writing this. Something for you to consider. I'll let HK3 do his usual good job of helping you.

Lin

« Last Edit: August 26, 2017, 07:01:42 AM by Lin Treadgold - Author »

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Tuck

One day we everybody is going to die, but before it, very few think about it. This short story reminds me of a situation of a cliffhanger, it is some sort of detailed account of a victim hanging above the dead and realises that he is taking into the eyes of death.